Don't Touch My Archangel
by Colored Pencil Klepto
Summary: Just a horrid little thing I wrote after "Hammer of the Gods." Pure      , a bunch of fangirls beating up on Lucifer. Spoilers for "Hammer of the Gods." Rated T for          and some pretty dirty humor. Exactly 1000 words. O o; Not planned, I assure you.


_Author's note the first—No, Supernatural isn't mine, I wish it was, etc etc. Most of the fans aren't either, they're real people. I know it's implausible, impossible, and many other things starting with imp—. I'm just mad at Luci and decided to beat on him a bit. So sue me._

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**Don't Touch **

**My Archangel**

They were there when he turned the corner. Waiting for him. As if they'd been waiting all his life for this moment.

Well, that was impossible. He was immortal and they weren't. But the Devil is entitled to melodrama.

He looked over his shoulder. They were behind him too. And on each side. He was trapped.

Now, dear reader, you may be wondering what can possibly frighten the Devil. The answer is many things. He is afraid of puppies, flowers, butterflies, the dark, and losing his security blanket. But in this case, he was scared of the most feared supernatural creature on the face of this planet. (And several others that we haven't discovered yet. Seeing as the only person they ever came in contact with on _this_ planet is George Bush, well… The search for intelligent life goes on. Hurrah and all that.) But I digress. We were speaking of the creatures. The feared creatures.

They were more single-minded than zombies, more bloodthirsty than vampires, and more persistent and widespread than ghosts.

They were fangirls.

Well, okay, there were a few guys. But "fangirls and boys" is a mouthful, "fanpeople" is stupid, "fans" is boring, and "fanboys" is reminiscent of English class. So fangirls.

Lucifer shuddered. Fangirls were his feariest fear, and here they were.

Waiting.

One stepped forward. She was average sized, blonde, and looked perfectly normal. Except for the overlarge baseball bat she was menacingly tapping against her palm.

"Hi there!" she said brightly, as if this were a social occasion.

Lucifer raised an eyebrow.

"I'm Becky."

"Get on with it!" shouted a random army.

"And I have a boyfriend named Chuck."

Uh-oh.

"You see, he's a prophet."

Oh dear.

"And he said he saw something that we'd like you to explain."

Crap.

Becky stepped forward, and suddenly she looked a lot scarier than before.

"Did you kill Gabriel?"

Best just to get it over with. Maybe they'd only injure him brutally. "Yes."

There was utter silence. Then Becky said, "Well, we'll have to do something about that. Who will strike the first blow?"

The fangirls clamored.

Lucifer felt like he was going to be sick.

"Rosie," Becky pronounced, "you may."

When one hears the name Rosie, one thinks of a chubby-cheeked little girl with chestnut pigtails and a puffy floral dress who lisps adorably and wears Mary Janes.

This Rosie was not one of those.

She was tall and lean, and her hair was short, spiky, and purple. She looked like she'd shank you if you said "Mary Janes" in her presence.

She carried a wooden practice sword.

This was gonna hurt.

Lucifer cringed as she lifted the sword above her head to strike.

"Wait!" called a girl with an Irish accent. "Can we rape him first?"

Rosie stared. Becky stared. The fangirl in the back with a nose piercing's psychiatrist's mother's tattoo artist stared.

The Irish girl cringed.

"Or at least lick him?"

Becky nodded understandingly, and the fangirls turned their backs for five minutes to give the two some privacy. Several winced at the sounds they heard.

When they turned around, Lucifer was awfully disheveled, and the girl looked smug. And good lord—was that a hickey? Ew.

Becky raised one of those little black and white checkered race car starter flags. Lucifer idly wondered where it came from, but his thoughts were drowned out by a chorus of loud and badly played trumpets, which was followed by one of the trumpeters going into a jazz solo.

Becky glared at the errant trumpeter and whished the flag around, stabbing a short-ish Taiwanese guy in the guts. Becky then yelled, "Let the beating of one Lucifer Marie Marie commence!"

The fangirls laid into their hapless prey with vim, vigor, and other v-ish words. Voraciousness perhaps. Lucifer attempted to smite them, but Rosie used her Super Sexy Ninja Awesomesauce Fanfiction Author Powers to suspend reality (what little was left) and conjure up an obscure spell that magically made all the fangirls un-smiteable.

For a while, Lucifer gave as good as he got, and many fangirls were dragged to Red Cross tents that popped up out of nowhere. But then the poor man (devil, angel, whatever) stumbled into a plot hole that stripped him not of clothes (although that would be no bad thing) but of angelic powers. Plus it twisted his ankle.

Hours later, the fangirls trickled away, leaving a bloody wreck in their wake. All bones that could be broken were. Everything that could be torn was torn, and certain body parts had been abducted. The only thing that kept Lucifer from dying was the punch line of this story and his sexiness.

He dragged himself over to a young woman sitting on a park bench that had popped out of nowhere to further the plot.

"Please," he croaked. "Help…me…"

The young woman didn't seem to hear him as she muttered, "And Cas is so depressed by Gabe's death that he comes to Dean for comfort and they have angry sex."

This was the last straw that broke the camel's back. (Or the last fangirlishness that broke the Devil's… Eh, I got nothin')

And so our poor dear Lucifer died in a park all by his lonesome, bloody self with only a Destiel fan as witness. RIP, Luci.

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_Author's note the second—I know, I know, don't get started. Never in a million years, blah blah blah. But I had to write it. I am so very very pissed at Luci for killing Gabe._

_Press the review button?_


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